Regrets
by Blood.Stained.Fingers
Summary: AU of DH, chapter one. It's whilst Harry is packing his merge belongings, war on the horizon, that Harry realises if he were more like Voldemort he would thrive in this situation. Harry wished he were more like Voldemort, at times and only secretly...


**Disclaimer – I do not own Harry Potter.**

**A/N – No beta reader so I apologise for any mistakes you'll find. This is just something that occurred to me the other day so I took a break from revision to write it.**

**Regrets**

_Harry placed the stack of books on his desk tiredly, flexing his fingers in order to get more blood into them once their heavy load was disposed of. He eyed the shattered glass in the desk, the shattered dreams that they represented, the shattered hope, even. The silence of the Dursley's household is unnerving and Harry felt a thousand eyes on the back of his neck and he quickly decided what he needed to pack and what he should abandon to the death eaters for when they rummage around in this house._

_He looked at the near empty case - a few items of clothing in it, thrown in, he found himself wanting to straighten them out but none the less he left them as they were. Never enough time. He went downstairs and towards his cupboard, opening it with a stilted movement. _

_It still hurt to look at his old room. _

_He looked in at the black space with a tired resignation before turning on the light. Harry's eyes flickered over the little toy soldiers that littered the shelf and the crappy mattress on the floor. He went to pick one up but paused at the layer of dust that coated everything in there._

It really wasn't fair Harry decided, mind you, he had decided that a long time ago – when he was very young and looking into the blackness of his little cupboard. _Life isn't fair._ He hated how bloody cliché that statement was and yet it was so bloody true. Harry had learned in every step that he had taken through his life that it was true.

Sometimes he wished he could have been more like Voldemort – he may have been a psychopathic, murdering arsehole but he made life bend to his will. Harry felt like he had a collar and leash around his neck dragging him backwards – he couldn't imagine where to begin to resist – how to take hold of his life now that it was in this state.

That's the problem with being pulled forwards whilst facing backwards – you can see your past, where the problems were – even thinking of where to change them, but you cannot tell what's coming – you have no hope and you have no foothold.

Harry knew he had spent so long looking backwards – and finding himself unable to look forwards. He probably couldn't now.

He felt so bloody lost and he was so angry. He is a child trapped in a world that wants him to do an adults job. Voldemort is in front of him, ready to take on the world and bend it whichever way he fancies and Harry is being dragged along backwards unable to see Voldemort (_waiting, just waiting_) for him.

Harry would always be angry about the fact that he was forced into that situation – into a helpless place. Voldemort had decided to start a war and Harry…Harry was forced into it.

If Harry were more like Voldemort he would _thrive_ in this situation.

Harry looked at Hermione, who knew more about the wizarding world than he. He had been like her – new to this world. She went out of her way to learn everything. He had never tried.

But he had always been more important.

_Potter._

The name carried more weight than he did.

He had a pure-blood name that all respected… but he was a muggle raised half-blood.

He was a mudblood in actuality. A mudblood with dirty blood – how is that even possible? – but he was, he was neither wizard nor muggle – he was stuck between the two. He knew the muggle world but he didn't belong and he didn't know the wizarding world but his place was there…his name tied him there and he was just supposed to _know_.

_Don't do this, don't do that…_

Maybe that's why he never bothered learning – he was sick of expectations – he had them at the Dursely's and he had lived up to them _perfectly._ So he decided to defy what he was _supposed_ to do.

It made life hard – he blundered through it all and Ron…dim-witted and there for second hand fame Ron followed along and didn't help.

Hermione flaunted her knowledge and sometimes it ate at Harry – not because she was smarter than him (so what? She had a good memory – reciting passages at a time – he could do it if he wanted) Hermione wasn't really that smart at all. She bragged like she was though – but she'll never fit in – she is a mudblood and that's that.

Harry wished he were smarter.

Harry didn't want to fit into the mould – didn't want to be the Boy-Who-Lived, he wanted to be Harry. Just Harry. He hated how his name already defined him and how people already knew what they expected from him. He hated how because he knew so little, he had to comply.

Voldemort didn't comply; he exploited the rules until he could turn them on their head and destroy them from the inside out.

Harry wished he were more like Voldemort, at times and only secretly.

Voldemort was undefined, he was unpredictable, deadly and respected.

Harry was defined by his one achievement – not dying. It wasn't fair how suddenly this _amazing skill_ he was supposed to have would either save him or damn him in the eyes of the public. It wasn't fair how they expected a teenage boy to get up after they had thrown their stones at him and then save them from the very real monster under the bed.

It wasn't fair _but_ he was Harry _Potter_ and so he was supposed to do get on with it. No one would dream of doing it to Voldemort – not even when he was Tom Riddle – young orphan in a shithole of an orphanage because he was smart, cunning and cruel.

Harry was liked a weak joker in comparison, not smart enough, subtle as a brick and soft, he was a joker – removed from the pack because he wasn't wanted and could be thrown away once he had destroyed Voldemort.

The one they feared and cowered from – years after his death he would always be known as _He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named_ and _You-Know-Who_ – what a fucking joke! Harry hated it – Voldemort had died – he may have come back - but he had _died!_ A part of Harry hated the fact that Voldemort was known for defying death when Harry had too – yet he was still just a child, ignorant, pathetic child who is a miracle who will die for others and then they will forget his name.

_Harry snatched up the little soldiers and tossed them into the bin with force that surprised himself. He took the mattress and the pillows and chucked them into Dudley's room, watching the spray of dust that burst from them swirl around into Dudley's carpet with a kind of satisfaction. He found some of his old childish pictures – happy, deceptive ones, because adults ask question when a child gives in an unhappy picture – and he wavers as he holds the horrid and garish pictures over the bin. Lies, they were all lies!...And yet, they were his lies and his drawings. He had never told the Dursley's about them – they would destroy them and despite it all Harry had been _proud_ of his drawings at the time. In the end he folded them again with the many creases they already had and tucked them in the back of his trunk._

_He made sure that the little cupboard was clear – he didn't want death eaters to find this and use it as ammunition against other muggles. It was a condemning picture none the less._

_In the end when the house is bare and Harry's trunk is sitting open in the living room, his books and the like all taking his place in the cupboard under the stairs, Harry leaned against the kitchen counter. He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked about the barren house. He wished he could feel something towards it – hate would be good, would be _something,_ but there was nothing, just an apathetic notion that accompanied it all. In the end, Harry pushed himself away from the work surface and went to his trunk, slamming it shut. It shrunk to the size of a locket and Harry put it around his neck._

_It felt good, almost, like the weight of the world wasn't pulling on his neck – it was only his trunk. _

_It was a false comfort. _

_He turned off the lights for the last time and the moonlight flooded the barren room in a haunting white light. Harry stepped out the front door and shut it with finality – never would he open the door again. He twisted the key, the latch clicking and the metal security locks sliding into place – funny how loud it was at night. He gave the door a little bit of a shake in order to make sure it was secure before removing the key._

_As he held the cold slip of metal in his warm hand, he found himself automatically bending down and putting the key under the flowerpot. Honestly, people would not see it as the farce of sentimentality it was. _

_He walked away from the house without looking back and saw Arabella Figg by her front door, she looked up as she saw him walk past. She held up her hand, as though she was going to wave but she paused as though she didn't know what to do or perhaps thought it inappropriate. _

_The whole scenario felt exactly how it was – being waved off to war…with no known possibility that he would return._

_He felt like solider – a forlorn and desperate solider who knew his chances were beyond slim. He was a solider and despite being Harry Potter and a supposed leader of the light, he was nothing but a follower…because he had never tried to be a someone… _

Harry wished he could sway people like Voldemort did – even like Dumbledore, but Harry still didn't know enough – he didn't have enough drive – he had become lazy.

Harry had been forced for years to not outshine Dudley and when he was young he was _smart_, very smart, and though he always had moments of brilliance Harry had lost the ability to be interested in learning – he had been trained to lose – so he lost.

Voldemort had never been forced to lose to someone else. _They wouldn't have dared._ Harry resented himself for falling into this complacency. He had gone back to his cupboard out his own complicity now – too scared to take charge and too strong to disappear.

Harry had been bowing too long that he had forgotten how to stand.

Dumbledore wouldn't have done that.

Voldemort wouldn't have done that.

Harry Potter had. But Harry wants to be Harry. Just Harry. He feels like carving into his forehead to cover the scar. A giant bloody tattoo to replace an older more famous one.

Mind you, underneath that statement Harry would feel like carving – _still hiding…_

**A/N – Please review and tell me what you think?**

…**Back to exam revision now….**


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